Praegressus
by Nascense
Summary: The woman, the soldier, the murderer, the mercenary, and the hero. The story of Savyna, and the journey of a warrior.
1. Chapter 1

Praegressus

* * *

The woman, the soldier, the murderer, the mercenary, and the hero. The story of Savyna, and the journey of a warrior.

* * *

They come to my house today, wearing bright red uniforms and glossy golden boots.

This isn't a new sight to me; I see these high-ranking officers a lot at the Academy. They're always talking with great, big words, looking important with their medals and their tassels. My mom tells me that if I want to be an officer someday and lead my own platoon, I'll have to learn to speak like that and walk like that. She tells me that I'll have to learn to like that bright, bright red and those gaudy metal boots.

But I don't get it. I'm a good fighter—a very good fighter, better than anyone else in my year, even better than Azdar, the teacher's pet. And if I'm a good fighter, then I can serve the Emperor better than those guys with their tacky colors and stupid awards, right?

My mom calls me over. "These officers tell me that you're accelerating through your coursework impressively. Is this true?" Her face doesn't show it (it never does), but she's proud.

I nod, staring intently at the men.

One of them says, "We think, if she continues to excel in her studies, that she'll become part of the elite forces when she graduates."

My mom beams at me.

I'm quiet. I don't like talking to superior officers.

"Would you like that?" the other asks. His mustache intimidates me.

I nod.

"Of course, she won't be eligible to graduate until she's at least thirteen, so she still has five years until she's officially qualified." They stare at me hard for awhile, and I don't like it. I don't like them. Then they turn away and start talking to my mom, using words like "logistics" and "brilliant," and I have nothing else to say, so I just walk back into my room.

I don't need to understand the words they're using to know they expect me to be great, and I will be. I'll be the best soldier in the entire military.

I love the Empire.

* * *

Azdar sits up from the mat, spitting blood from the corner of his mouth onto the floor.

"Damn, Savyna! What the hell was that for?"

I step back and straighten my (red, red) uniform. "You're pathetic, Azdar. What, can't take a little hit?" I taunt.

His face contorts in rage. "What the fuck did you say to me?"

I shrug, smirking.

Azdar growls low in his throat, and catches me by surprise by tackling me around the knees. A low blow, and he knows it. But so was my backhand to his face.

I relish this, this grappling with him.

It's always been like this with us. He hates me—he's jealous that I'm better, embarrassed because I'm a girl and I'm smaller and weaker. But I'm smarter and faster, and I know how to make each hit count.

To be honest, I hate him a little, too. He's got friends; he knows how to inspire people to help him. I might be the best fighter the Academy has seen in years, but for some reason, people don't like me. And I don't really know how to fix that. Should I even want to?

So we fight each other. Because I'm proving that I don't need friends to be strong.

I elbow him in the solar plexus and he gasps, hesitating just long enough for me to scramble out from under him. I jab him in the ribs and then roll onto his back, grabbing his arm and hyper-extending the elbow with my forearm. Azdar hisses in pain.

I push the arm bar a little farther and he grunts, tapping the mat quickly.

I smirk, and shove his head down to the floor as I rise off his back.

He turns over, glaring at me in utter contempt. "I hate you," he hisses.

I just smirk and walk away.

He hates me because I'm graduating next week, the youngest soldier in 57 years.

Emperor Geldoblame himself has seen me fight, a surprise appearance at one of the tournaments the Academy periodically sponsors. He offered me a place on his personal guard squad.

By this time next week, I'll be where I belong: fighting to protect the most important man in the world.

What does anyone's hate mean to me?

* * *

It's been two years since I graduated from the Academy, since I started working for the Emperor. Well, almost two years—I'll be fourteen this Saturday.

I love my job. I love that I'm directly responsible for protecting the most influential man of any continent, that I'm contributing so much more than the average soldier, much less citizen.

But, as I quickly came to realize, my youth has yet again proven to be a stymie.

I thought the people on the personal guard would be different, but they're almost exactly the same. They act callous toward me, ignoring me when I talk and laughing at me when my back is turned. But I can see it in their eyes—they fear me.

So I'm okay with the laughing. They mock me because they're terrified. Exactly like the Academy.

In some ways, it thrills me. It's petty, really. My youth is what scares them the most.

Today, though, I'm not guarding the emperor, because it's my day off. I decided to go to Ahza—I've never been there before. Now that I'm a soldier, I can go wherever I want within the country.

The impression I get when I arrive is that Ahza is a cheerful place. A little grungy, but the people look happy as they bustle around, doing their duties. I scan the buildings. The tall spires enterprise toward the sky—there's something vaguely foreboding about the spindly structures, but I shake it off. Soldiers are never afraid. That's been drilled into my head since I was a kid. Never afraid.

I turn away from them and look instead toward the vending stalls lining the other side of the dusty road. The little trinkets they sell look amusing, and on a soldiers pay, I would be able to afford mostly anything I want.

I'm about the buy a gold bracelet when something out of the corner of my eye catches my attention. I pick it up.

It's a glove, shaped into the form of a fist, metal plated from the fingers to the knuckles and tipped with metal talons. I turn it in my hands curiously. Not too heavy.

"Excuse me," I motion to the stall keeper. "Can you tell me what this is called?"

She turns around, shock clear on her face. She peruses my red uniform, and walks towards me wearily. "Those are called brass knuckles," she says. "They used to be a popular weapon for the imperial soldiers, but since guns have gotten more advanced, they've been put out of commission."

I nod, returning my gaze the gloves. Something about them seems so…

I slip my hand into one. It's perfect.

"How much?" I ask.

"3000."

Cheap for a good weapon, very cheap. I may not be an expert in this type of armament, but even I can tell that this isn't amateur work. I pull the appropriate amount of money out of the pack on my hip and trade it with her.

Despite her clear misgivings about my age (always, always, always), all shopkeepers know to keep their mouths shut when money is on the table. She smiles gleefully, her two front teeth missing, and I walk absentmindedly away from her, fingering the metal knuckles.

A rare sensation of elation begins to build within my abdomen. All my life, my greatest flaw had been the fact I was physically weaker than the other men in my squads, weaker than my male classmates at the Academy, weaker than Azdar. And while I could train away any weaknesses in my stance, my technique, my mind, I could never train away the inherent weakness in my body.

But now, with these new weapons… It wouldn't matter how strong my arms were.

I'll always have the advantage.

* * *

For over four years, I have worked tirelessly for the emperor, and in that time, I've learned much.

There aren't many females in the military, and there are virtually none that are considered regular soldiers. In fact, the only other female I knew of was a woman named Ayme, famous for her insanity and her body among the men. In some ways, it gives me an advantage.

Men, I have learned, are susceptible to females in a way that isn't present in women for men. By the time I was fifteen, I noticed them leering on me as I walked around in the constricting uniform of my station. Back then, I was confused, not knowing the implications, the _advantage _that my gender afforded me…

Now, I'm seventeen, and I've been promoted to a high rank, one that offers me the luxury of wearing whatever I want. I know exactly what my curves contribute to my ability to succeed, and I use it. My form, like my fists, like my mind, is a weapon.

I almost want to laugh. How could I ever have thought my body was a _weakness_? But I don't laugh. I never do.

One of the great advantages that come with rank are the choices available to you. Like how Giacomo, Ayme, and Folon have chosen to stand apart from the Elite Forces in style, methods, and missions, so now can I. I choose my new uniform in the capital at the seedy shop in the center of town, where the shopkeeper looks at my breasts and hips appreciatively. I afford him no glance, he matters so little in the grand scheme of things.

It's black, because I could never stomach red. Short. Tight. Exactly what I need to work to my maximum advantage. I slip into it behind a curtain, pulling it over my chest with some effort, and think, _This is perfect._

I step out from behind the curtain. The shopkeeper immediately stops and drops the books he was holding onto his foot.

_Perfect._

"Hey," I call to him, "got any shoes to go with this outfit?"

His mustache quivers slightly, "Just a moment." His voice cracks, I frown. Useless. And for some reason, he makes me feel… I look down at my outfit and brush my hand over my stomach.

… _dirty…_

Ignore it. Control it. I take a deep breath in, and as I exhale, I let the soldier inside of me expel all doubt. It's unfitting for a soldier to be anything less than perfectly in control of any situation.

In a few moments, he's back out, carrying the most complex, acid green shoes I have ever seen. I touch them, weighing the pros and cons. On one hand, these shoes might make movement more difficult, and one of the biggest assets to my fighting style is my speed. I would be useless slowed down.

But I'm also confident that I would overcome the encumbering style of the boots, and the heels themselves would offer an additional weapon that has a potential to become very useful to me.

"I'll take them," I direct to the shopkeeper.

He hastens over to me. "Excellent."

* * *

I enter the chamber, looking upon the face of my emperor. I am humbled. I fall to one knee in front of his throne, showing him the proper respect, and keep my mouth closed. It is his will I enforce, it is only right that he will speak first.

"Savyna."

I bow further. "You have summoned me, Your Majesty?"

"Yes," he rumbles. "You have done especially well lately, my child. The efficiency and cunning you displayed when putting down that uprising in the east was most impressive."

I nod, taking his compliment with unseen pride.

He stands, grunting slightly with the effort it takes for him to remove himself from his throne. "It has come to my attention that the skills you possess are above the station you are assigned to. In the case that you also believe you can serve the empire more effectively than now, I have an offer to make you."

I can't help but look up sharply. His eyes are glinting beneath his vivid make-up. I don't know what to say, so I sit there silently in shock. A station more important than the direct protection of my emperor…?

"I have noticed that our military is not lacking in strength, however, it is lacking in speed. This is a critical problem that needs to be rectified. I have taken the liberty to form a group that will act as a first battalion for any dispute, internal or external, comprised of the finest soldiers Alfard's military has to offer. This group, dubbed the Mad Wolf Unit, will also act as black ops, and every mission received will be received directly from my mouth. I have chosen the leader of the Mad Wolf Unit… to be you, Savyna."

I mercilessly tamp down on a strangled gasp trying to escape me, but my eyes are focused on nothing except my emperor. This… this is beyond anything I had ever expected for myself. Eighteen, and leading my own squadron? Could there be a higher honor?

On my kness, I crawl to his feet and bow my body to the floor. "Thank you, Your Glory. There are… no words," I whisper, my voice cracking slightly, "to express my gratitude. I accept your offer."

Emperor Geldoblame chuckles lowly. "Excellent. I expect great things from your squad, Savyna. Exemplary things."

I struggle to contain my exuberance, trying to regain the professional calm that most suits a soldier. I'm not entirely successful. "Yes, sir. I will work to make you, and the Empire, proud."

He nods. "I will contact you in three days about the details of your new position. Until then, you are officially on leave."

I bow again and leave the room.

* * *

Three days later, I learn exactly what irony means. I am standing alone in a briefing room inside of the Imperial fortress, waiting for my Emperor; the door slides open.

Emperor Geldoblame fills the door with his colorful skirts. "Savyna."

I nod, bow. "Yes, your Highness."

"I am pleased to see that you are here. I have chosen your second in command; he will hear of your assignment with you."

I straighten myself and look at my Emperor. My gaze slides past him and I that there is a man shadowed in the doorway, I can't see his face yet—until he steps fully into the room.

"Azdar?" I rasp. I am totally unprepared for this. A familiar combination of loathing and jealousy coils in my gut, and I forcefully tamp it down before it can show on my face. Control. Control. Do not disgrace the Emperor with weakness.

Azdar's face would almost be impassive, if not for the slight widening of his eyes and loosening of his jaw. Clearly, he didn't expect to see me, either. "Savyna," he intones, and there's something there—a residual bitterness, maybe even hatred.

I should look away—I should. I can't. This is a tangible piece of my past—even in six years, I have never been able to forget Azdar. He is the only person in the entire world who ever made me feel inferior in any way. I will always hate the part of me who longed as a child to be, for one split second, exactly like him.

I bet he's exactly the same—still pretty-boy perfect, a good fighter but not a great one, still charismatic to a fault. I… I still have never made a single friend.

I shove that feeling as far down as I can, because I don't need that. That feeling has no place in the military. I live for the Empire… having friends is superfluous. I learned that so long ago.

Emperor Geldoblame clears his throat.

I jerk, and look sharply back to him.

He smiles broadly, revealing his abnormally sharp teeth. "Shall we get back to business?"

I glance at Azdar, who is still staring at me with an increasingly dark look on his face.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

* * *

Control.

* * *

I gasp as Azdar's knee drives harshly into my back. He holds me there, pushing me into the training mat, trying to force me into submitting. I grit my teeth as the pressure increases painfully.

With tremendous effort, I pull my knee up and quickly slam my elbow into the mat hard, using the momentum to toss him off my body. He grunts in surprise as I use this same momentum to flip onto my side, driving my heel into his abdomen.

"Fuck!" he wheezes.

He grabs for my ankle and I jump up quickly, out of grappling range. I breathe heavily as he tries to recover from the blow.

His grimace slowly disappears and then he suddenly grins up at me before flipping onto his feet as well. "What, Savyna—is that all you've got? I would have expected you to improve in the years we haven't seen each other," he taunts.

I flick my hair behind me.

"Arrogant, as always. But remember that there's a reason I was chosen to lead the Mad Wolf Squad." I pull the magnus for my Tekken out of my hip pouch. "All out?"

Azdar activates the magnus for his scythe and it appears before him in a dazzling display of light. "Yeah."

We only pause for a second before we are both in motion. I run straight at him, immediately trying to rush him into a sloppy move. He blocks with the staff of his scythe and pushes forward, disrupting my center of gravity and forcing me to stumble awkwardly backwards. I fall back into stance quickly but he's a good fighter—he's used that time to swarm into my space and lands a powerful kick into my ribs.

_MotherFUCKER. _I press my hand to the throbbing injury, scowling.

And now I'm pissed off. People rarely land hits on me.

He laughs outright, but I ignore it and feign a punch to his sternum. He blocks and I drive my spiked Tekken into his shoulder guard, puncturing it slightly. He jerks to the side and I attempt to drive my stiletto into his shin, but I only land a slight graze. He raises the scythe and uses the blunt edge to jab me hard in the stomach, but I force the scythe out of the way by smacking the blunt edge with the palm of my hand; at the same time, I raise my other hand and smack him harshly in the face.

He bites out a curse and raises his knee to get me in the ribs. I'm already tender there because of his kick, so I twist around—dangerous, if he's fast enough, I'm totally vulnerable with my back turned—and drive my fist into his knee. The spikes on my Tekken rip into his skin and I'm gratified to see blood when I wrench my hand away.

I smirk broadly at him. But instead of getting to gloat, he surprises me by rushing me and shoving his shoulder into my stomach. I gasp as we fall to the floor, but I struggle hard—in this position, women almost always get pinned with no way to escape because of our slighter mass.

But he manages to pin me to the ground by using his hands as manacles on my wrists and his shins over my thighs to keep me locked in place. I know that I'm in a bad place and so does he. "Hah! Savyna, the way you're fighting, you'd think you were still twelve years old. How'd a woman like you get to lead in a man's occupation?"

And it's the Academy all over again. How is nothing ever enough? My age, my abilities, my gender… Is it because of these things? Is because of these things that this man will never be able to take me seriously?

…No. He WILL respect me.

He gets distracted by his gloating and I wrench my arm free of his hand. I punch him hard in the jaw, hissing, "Shut the fuck up." I shove him back with a swift knee to the gut and jump up, facing him, furious. "I'm better than anyone in this goddamn military! Don't you dare think that you're more worthy than me for this!" I plant my feet and raise my hands, and without conscious decision I begin to build power. "BURNING ARROW!" The explosive force of my magic rushes right at him and I immediately see that he won't be able to avoid this. Malicious glee rises up inside of me—because I have never been able to control this aspect of myself, the aspect that wants to prove _I am better than this man…_

But the arrows hit him straight in the chest, and he crumples lifelessly to the ground. The glee dissipates immediately and a sickening horror begins to dawn on me as I realize… this is the only time I have unnecessarily taken a human life. And it is Azdar's.

What have I done?

"Oh fuck!" I breathe, running towards his prone form. "Fuck! Please! Please don't be…"

He coughs wetly and his hand twitches.

"Thank God," I whisper. My hands are shaking, my voice is thin. "Thank God." I sink to my knees beside him and will my magical arrows to dissipate with the last of my strength.

"Augh," he hisses, face pale, "Damn, Savyna. Get the fuck away from me." He looks at me with such an expression of pure hatred that I recoil slightly, but I know he doesn't have the strength to physically push me away because of the blood loss.

And I… I suddenly can't summon up the will to loathe him. I have injured him like this, attacked him seriously in what was supposed to be a practice spar. I have taken advantage of the situation as his commanding officer because he had hurt my pride, and if my aim had been any more accurate, he would be dead right now. He has every right to hate me, and the only right I have is to feel guilt. This is my fault. This is my responsibility.

"No, let me help, then you can beat the shit out of me later." I pull out a bottle of High Potion out of my hip pouch and spread some on his chest with trembling fingers. I sit back and sigh tremulously, and take a moment to collect my wits. "I'm… so sorry about this. I let my temper get the best of me…" I trail off.

Azdar is silent. He doesn't accept my apology, but the hatred in his eyes has dissipated somewhat into confusion. I don't blame him. I must seem psychotic to him, blasting him with a Finishing Move one minute and then playing nurse with him the next… I am seriously fucked up.

I lean forward again and work for a while in silence, taking out a roll of bandages and continuing to rub High Potion into his wounds. "I…" my voice cracks, and I falter. But I have to say this, so I start again, "I don't want… to hate you anymore. But I've never been good at controlling myself around you."

He's quiet for some time. "Why?" he eventually asks, hesitant and distrusting.

And God, I've never been very good at this shit. Admitting things. Emotional talks. They tell you at the Academy to keep your thoughts in your mind and not your mouth, because a soldier isn't a person while in uniform. If I was a normal kid at the Academy, I may have been able to drop that lesson outside of school, but I couldn't separate the soldier and the person inside of me. And I know why. It's because I was the only girl, I was the youngest student, and because, in Alfard's military, a female could be either two things—the best, or nothing. And, in a way, Azdar became the one that I could unleash all my anger at—my hatred at the unfairness, my rage that I would always be an anomaly… Azdar was the most normal a person could be, and I hated that, no matter what I could do, there was one thing even I would never be able to achieve.

But even I know that this grudge—I can't hold it forever. He's my partner now, and I owe it to him to be candid. "I can't explain it, exactly. I've always considered you my biggest rival. You've… always had something naturally that I've never been able to achieve my whole life… and I've always hated you for it. You could do it with no effort at all, but I've never, in all of my life, been able to get it…"

He snorted. "You? You can't get something? The woman who as a child beat her commanding officer 20 years her senior into submission and as an adult has never failed a mission? … I don't believe you. Don't lie to make amends."

I shake my head, unable to meet his eyes. "That's not what I'm talking about. Fighting, hurting… that's easy. Mindless. Animals can do it. But the stuff that makes us human… knowing how to make friends…" I glance at him, but his eyes are too intense and I can't hold his gaze. "I've never been able to get that."

The silence between us is heavy. And—fuck—I don't know what to say now. I've never let anyone hold this position over me; right now, he has all the cards.

Why is he just staring? "Say something, damn it," I hiss.

And, finally, he smirks. "That's more like the Savyna I know." He lays a hand on his chest and struggles to sit up, groaning slightly. I immediately start forward to protest, but he cuts me off with a scoff. "Please. This is just a flesh wound." I sit back, frowning.

"I won't lie, Savyna," he says, "I've hated you for as long as I can remember. You've always been the perfect soldier; top fighter, natural commander, relentless, prodigal, all that shit. When I was a kid, I wanted that so badly that I would fight you constantly to try and win, just once." He frowns. "When I saw you again a few days ago… it was like all that came back to me. I still hate that you beat me every time, and I still hate you." Sighing, he continues, "But you're right. We work together now for the sake of the Emperor. This isn't about me anymore." He lifts up his hand to me, "Though we'll probably never be friends, let's at least be able to trust one another. Truce?"

I reach forward and grab his hand.

"Truce."

* * *

_Part 1/?. I have most of this written. It should be around 30000 words, so the chapters will get longer. Review, please! :)_


	2. Chapter 2

The Mad Wolf Unit is both everything and nothing I expected, and things proceed more smoothly than I could've ever imagined—I suppose that is the benefit of working with highly-trained professionals. Many of the missions we carry out are, as the Emperor promised, black-ops, with the entire team acting as a single entity. There are times, however, that only a few people are chosen to work on a specific mission—sometimes even one person. I've gone on a few solo missions myself.

This time, however, it's just Azdar and I. There's been tell of treachery from Diadem, whispers that the nobles are going to start an uprising against the Empire, and so this mission is more reconnaissance than anything. A large unit would cause suspicion, but we together should be fairly on the down low. Two years after taking control of our unit and ending the rivalry between us, Azdar and I are more than comrades in arms. Against all believability, I trust Azdar with my life… he is my friend, if a person like me could ever claim to have that. We work well together.

This mission should be a cinch. The King of Diadem is throwing another dinner party for the upper class for some peace treaty that they'd recently drawn up between themselves and Anuenue. We're targeting a single prominent noble, Roshinbergh, one of King Ladekahn's advisors—a man with a reputation of having vanity for his mustache, cunning military ability, and a hardy sexual appetite, all of which we can take advantage of. Azdar gets it easy—he has to pose for a military commander, which won't be hard at all considering our profession; we also covered our bases by providing him with a cover of anonymity due to the fact that he won' t be identified as an imposter by the General, who is coincidentally… indisposed… for tonight. It helps that he has the complexion of the people of Nashira—a small fishing hamlet to the north. He gets to mingle with all of the nobles, but Roshinberg specifically he gets to ply with alcohol. I get the more difficult job of extracting the necessary information from the inebriated man by posing as the entertainment—an exotic prostitute from an island a little off of Anuenue called Aurilia, known internationally for training beautiful, talented women in the art of seduction. Azdar plays upon his vanity, I play upon his hormones—then we take him out. Should be simple enough.

I tug the ribbons together to close the fabric together on my left thigh. I look at myself in the mirror, scrutinizing my outfit, and decide that this is passable. The outfit itself covers more than my uniform—but it's almost completely transparent. Uncomfortable at best, but it gets the job done. "Hmm." I grab my trench coat and walk out of the bathroom.

Azdar is sitting on the bed, fiddling with his magnus cards. He looks up at me when he hears me closing the door and, eyes widening, he immediately looks away again.

"What?" I ask, shrugging into my coat.

He shakes his head. "Nothing." He runs his hand through his gelled hair and lets out a sigh. "Let's just go." He mumbles something under his breath as he makes for the door.

"What was that?"

He doesn't even glance at me. "Nothing."

I furrow my brow in confusion, but let it go. "Wait," I say. I walk up to him and grab his bowtie—it's lopsided and unprofessional looking. "Who would have known that you could be so inept with formalwear," I quip, smirking.

"Shut up," he deadpans. "I wear neckties with my uniform—neckties. I don't even know what the hell a bowtie is."

"Clearly." I step back and examine his outfit—formal Diadem wear, plenty of blue and yellow, this nation's colors. It looks good on him. "Ready?"

He nods and we make our way to the castle for the ball.

This is the first time I've been to Sheliak, though I've seen plenty of pictures of it in textbooks and schematics. The castle is, of course, beautiful, but I don't have time to admire it before I'm ushered into the foyer by the knights. They take one look at me and I can tell they have no idea why I'm dressed in a trench coat; certainly, I don't look at like one of the noble women at this event. Azdar nods to me and makes his way into the main chamber.

I turn to the guard. "I'm here as entertainment. I was requested by Lord Roshinberg?" I say, affecting a slight Anuenuen accent, prim and vaguely condescending.

The guard nods to a maid. "Follow her. She'll take you to Roshinberg's private room."

So far, so good. I enter the room and as soon as the door shuts I immediately start to look around for documents, letters, notifications, anything. This is his permanent residence, so he should be keeping them somewhere in this room.

After rifling through several desk drawers and pulling up nothing, I look around and notice that behind the bookshelf there is a slight opening. I roll my eyes. Could this man be any more predictable? I check the chronometer on the wall and gauge that I have about three hours until Roshinberg returns to his rooms. Plenty of time to do some investigating.

I push the bookshelf aside and slip into the chamber. As I expected, it's an office of some kind. My eyes are drawn to a safe in the darkest corner of the room. That's got to be it.

I take out my Panther Glove magnus and get to work trying to open it. It's not that hard. Seems like the man thought that his office was too "cleverly hidden" to be found. I open the safe and see a large stack of documents printed on official, white paper—bingo. Picking them up, I begin to rifle through them.

Nearly three hours later, I slip out of the room, carrying the papers. The papers themselves detail massive weapon production, which is in itself unsettling—but combined with the fact that Diadem is producing increasingly high-tech airships, the Empire could have a serious issues defusing the situation. Diadem knights have a highly intense training regime that easily bests the Empire's in straight-up combat; the edge that the Empire has is a numbers game. We're by far the biggest continent with the most organized military hierarchy, which makes induction and training of new soldiers simple. But if Anuenue decides to combine military forces with Diadem and trains their warriors in the knight's way, Alfard's soldiers would be at a dire advantage.

But while the papers clearly state the intention to stockpile weapons, it makes only the vaguest references to moving against the Empire (I would go as far as calling them "hopes" far projected into the future—it seems there is no immediate threat) and absolutely none for combining with Anuenue. Just to be sure, I need to clarify with Roshinberg. It would be unacceptable to let Diadem attack Alfard through subterfuge.

I hide the papers in a fake plant outside the room, push the bookshelf back into place, and make my way into the main bedroom, taking off my trench coat as I go. Almost show time. I take a fortifying breath—_soldiers are never afraid—_and sit on the bed.

I can tell that Roshinberg is drunk as soon as the door opens. In the main chamber I hear him stumbling around and mumbling, incoherently and slurred. It appears that Azdar has carried out his side of the plan perfectly.

I listen to him bumble around for a few minutes before I approach the door of the bedroom. "Lord Roshinberg?" I purr. Time to get this drunk idiot on the right track.

He's visibly inebriated, all flushed cheeks and too-bright eyes. But his drunkenness doesn't restrict him from looking at my body in the translucent shawls, appreciation clear on his face.

"Hello," he slurs. "Are you the entertainment I ordered for the night?"

I drape my body onto him. "Yes," I murmur.

"A beautiful woman," he says. "How talented are you?"

I pull him to the bed by the decorative scarf around his neck, saying, "Let me show you how good I can be."

I push him slightly and he falls to the bed in a graceless heap, aided by his severe inebriation. It should be easy enough to ask him a few questions.

He looks ecstatic as I climb on top of him and settle my weight over the hard ridge I can clearly feel through his pants. I hold back a shudder of disgust.

I loosen the scarf and proceed to kiss my way up his neck and preoccupy him for a few minutes. He groans and tugs a ribbon to open my outfit with surprisingly adept fingers, and quickly palms my breast. His hand is disgusting—slimy-feeling and hot, like he's diseased.

Hurry up, Savyna. "Tell me," I purr. "Why did Anuenue sign a peace treaty with Diadem?"

"Uh," he grunts, clearly processing. "Anuenue has that ridi—riculou—stupid neutrality policy and has signed a peace treaty with every continent. Diadem nee—uhh—needed to focus its might on gathering weaponry to combat the Empire at its own disgress—nnn, you feel so good…"

He loses focus and gropes at my breast in a way that is anything but pleasant. But no matter, I've gotten what I've needed here. There's no threat currently.

Roshinberg begins to hump me with the desperation of a teenage boy, and the need to end this situation goes from urgent to immediate. Contrary to plan, he hasn't passed out yet. How do I knock him out without leaving a mark, and at the time leaving suitable evidence that I performed my duties as a prostitute?

His fingers brush my inner thigh, mustache quivering with excitement.

I grimace. There's only one way. My best hope is that he'll pass out after I… "help him out." Goddamn it.

"Not yet," I murmur, swallowing my reluctance. "Let me tend to you first, my lord. I'll do _anything _to please you."

I unzip his pants quickly and steel myself for the feel of his disgusting… ugh.

Before I can dip my hand into his undergarments, something hard and strong wraps around my wrist with a dark, "I don't think so."

I gasp in shock as I'm hauled off of Roshinberg. I'm yanked around and I stare into the hard face of Azdar, more angry than I've ever seen it.

"Azdar," I breathe, "What…?"

"Move," he orders.

Roshinberg stares blearily at Azdar's face, seemingly so lost—or horny—that he's not even able to process this new development.

"Uh," he stammers. "What's going on…?"

Azdar advances on the bed, and I'm still so shocked by his random appearance that I don't even register what he's going to do before he chambers his fist back with clear intent.

"Wait!" I hiss. "No—"

But it's too late. With a dull thunk, Azdar's fist lands directly on Roshinberg's temple, knocking him clean out.

I stand there in silence, mouth agape, as I absorb the full horror of the situation.

"What the fuck did you do?" I whisper.

Azdar doesn't say anything, just stares at me with dark intensity.

"Fuck! I can't believe this—oh God, Azdar, get out of here!"

"Why?" he demands.

"So I can do some damage control, you goddamn idiot!" I shove him towards the door. "Go back to the room _immediately!_ And don't you _dare _let anyone see you."

Azdar complies with clear reluctance.

Immediately, I strip Roshinberg of his clothes and tangle the sheets around him. I remove a few of my shawls and toss them around the room to lend the scene some credibility. There's no way I can simulate the smell of sex or the stains that should be on the sheets, but it's the best that I can do. I just have to hope that Roshinberg is so hung over tomorrow morning that he doesn't notice the artificiality of this scene.

Or the knuckle shape of the bruise that's sure to decorate his temple. Maybe he'll think it's a kink?

I snag the documents and my trench coat, and hurry out of the room, hoping that no one will see me in the hall.

* * *

I slam open the door of our hotel room, scowling. Azdar is sitting on the bed, his face grim. "What the hell did you think you were doing, knocking him out like that? Now it looks fucking suspicious; he's going to wake up tomorrow with a bruise no one can explain to him, and he's going to go through his papers and find out some of them are missing way before he would have otherwise." I stamp in a rare display of anger. "Damn it, Azdar! I was going to make him pass out, anyway! What, did you have too much to drink tonight? Thank God I at least got all of the information out of him before you went apeshit! So much for your fucking judgment. What a rookie move." I slam the papers down on the bed in fury.

Azdar gets up from the bed and crosses the room with four angry strides, grabbing my wrists, "What was I supposed to do?" he hisses into my face. "Sit there and watch you touch him?"

"Yes!" I snap. "Because that's my goddamn job! I've been trained to do this shit since I was fifteen years old! So next time we have a duo job, you perform your duties and _stay the hell away from mine._"

"I can't do that," he growls.

"And why the fuck not?"

He tendon in his jaw jumps and he becomes so visibly angry that he can't say anything. His jaw works furiously for a few silently tense moments, before he lets an infuriated hiss escape. His grip on my wrists tightens. "You're so goddamn blind," he growls out.

"And just what is that supposed to mea—" My eyes widen as he crushes his mouth to mine, cutting off my words. _What the…?_

"Savyna," he mumbles against my lips. "This is why." His lips slant against my own and his hands slide down my sides to drop onto to my hips.

I don't respond for several moments, unbelievably shocked by this man for the second time this night.

But then, against my will, I feel my eyes close, and I kiss him back.

This is wrong. It's against protocol to fraternize when on a mission. It's unprofessional—especially after the close call we're sure to have after the fuck ups of tonight. For that matter, I'm still furious with him for that stunt he pulled.

But the way his lips are warm and wet, and he kisses me with the intensity of a starving man finding food… and it feels good. Maybe for once in my life, I should…

He groans deep in his throat and runs his tongue against my bottom lip.

Just one time. I'll take a risk. Just this one time.

His kisses become heavy against mine as he feels me give in and suddenly he lifts me to his waist. I wrap my legs around him out of pure instinct and the friction causes us both to groan.

He lifts his head and pants, eyes dark and hungry. "Savyna," he says.

I lean forward and nip his pulse point. "Yes," I respond simply.

He carries me to the bed, drops me, and then covers me with his body. "You're so beautiful," he breathes as he gazes at me.

I cup his neck and pull him down to me. "If all you wanted to do was look, you could have watched my breasts become exposed in Roshinberg's room."

He chuckles. "Believe me, if that's all I wanted, I would have peeked at you while you were getting changed on all of missions we've gone on alone together."

"Mm," I intone, tracing his lips with a finger, and then challenge, "I guess I should be grateful, in that case. For your self-restraint."

He chuckles again before gasping sharply as I roll my hips over his again. "Savyna," he pleads, gritting his teeth.

"Quiet," I shush.

There are no more words that night.

* * *

It has been a few days since Operation Sweep has been handed down—devised by Emperor Geldoblame himself. The mission seems simple: intimidate the villagers into continuing to work and deliver their regular shipments to Mintaka. Use force if necessary. It almost seems superfluous to send the highly-specialized Mad Wolf Unit to lead the soldiers—but I wouldn't question my Emperor. There's a reason for our presence there, I suppose I'll figure it out when I see the situation first-hand.

We arrived yesterday and set up camp outside Azha. The sands are hot, the sky is blue, and nothing looks like Mintaka. I remember so many years ago, when I walked down the dusty path of the city, perusing shop fares and finding one of the single greatest shaping factors of my life. Since that day, my magnus collection has grown and diversified, but the only weapons I will ever use are the knuckles.

I sigh as I look at the wilting town. I'll be disappointed if we have to resort to roughing up a few villagers, but it's necessary. The ice is an integral component of machina; machina is the reason that we can have peace in Alfard. Everyone benefits and everyone must contribute in some way. Mintaka's citizens join the military, Azha's citizens produce the ice. This is how it has to be; Azha has to realize it.

So today is the day that we offer our ultimatum.

"Listen up!" I call to my troops. They immediately stop what they're doing and hustle towards me. Perfect obedience has been trained into them. "We all know what to do today. If the meeting goes sour, use force, but not until then. We leave in an hour; bring your armaments. Dismissed."

They holler agreements to me and then bustle around campus at double time. I snag a soldier by the arm as he passes by me. "Where's Azdar?"

The soldier gestures to the other side of camp. "Somewhere over there, polishing his scythe, Captain."

I nod. "Carry on." I release him and walk to where the soldier indicated.

I see him doing just what the soldier said. "Azdar."

He looks over his shoulder, rag pausing over his weapon. "Hey."

I sit down next to him, quiet for a few seconds. Then I wonder aloud, "Do you think we're going to be able to complete this mission without violence?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. We have a bad track record of not being violent on our missions, even when the mission isn't supposed to necessarily involve force. And this one already comes with the threat of it." He pauses for a second, and I know we're both thinking of the nearly –disastrous Operation Gateway we participated in a few months back. Fucking lousy intel almost got us killed.

I shake away the memory with a sigh. "I was afraid of that."

He abruptly switches his tone, becoming warmer and softer. "Well, after this one, we've been promised some leave by the Emperor." He eyes me out of the corner of his eye.

I smirk. "Always looking for the silver lining, aren't you? What, are you expecting to spend it with me?"

He grins all out. "I don't expect, I know I will be."

"Is that so?" I murmur.

He continues to grin as he leans toward me, and I already know what he wants. "Not in front of the troops." I push him away slightly as I stand up, brushing off my uniform. "Wait until the mission is over." I smirk at him again; his eyes are dark and playful.

"Mm," he hums. "Always playing hard to get."

"Hey, tamp it down until we're out of here." I glance to the troops. "We've got to leave soon. You ready?"

He nods, standing up and resealing his magnus. "Yeah. Let's go."

I turn, shout a command to the troops and we move out.

When we approach the core of the village, I'm surprised to see that there are many villagers gathered in the central street, faces grim and bearing weapons. I'm immediately uneasy. This doesn't bode well for Plan A, a non-violent agreement.

"Who among you speaks for the village?" I shout to the mob. Maybe I can salvage this.

One man shouts faceless from the middle, "We have no village leader! Speak to us all!" The others cry in agreement.

My brow furrows. "Fine." I raise my voice up a decibel. "By decree of the emperor, the villagers of this village are ordered to resume their natural working schedules and to continue shipping the ice to Mintaka as planned. There will be no concessions." _Please, _I think, _please realize that there's no point in fighting._

The crowd shouts as one, a sound of outrage that sends goosebumps down my arms. _Fuck_. "NO!" They shout. And then as if it is a dam breaking under the weight of a waterfall, it's audible chaos—a shout from every man, "You imperial brutes are working our children to death!" "We no longer have any food to support the villagers!" "We can't keep this up any longer!" "We're not slaves! We're the free people of Alfard!"

I grit my teeth and activate a voice magnus. "QUIET!"

The mob quiets to a dull roar and eventually becomes silent—but every face is still set in a grimace of hatred.

. "You will do your part, or we _will _resort to force!"

There is silence for a single tense moment.

Then, "You will never conquer us!"A roar of agreement. A battle cry for Azha.

And then it all goes to hell.

It seems like thousands of Azhans crash upon us, and at first, the soldiers are disoriented. But then years of military training kick in for all of us, and we're fighting.

We fight in the streets for a long time, brawling like common drunkards, and I fell man after man with my fists—punching them in the throats, sweeping them to the ground to be trampled, snapping spines. In the haze of battle, I forget to hold back and I kill, kill, kill, gunshots echoing around me and sweat pungent in my nostrils. It's exhilarating, and frightening, the same feeling I always get as I fight for my life. As always, I am dehumanized.

The battle is tougher than expected. Azdar and I had underestimated the number of villagers that were to potentially fight the Mad Wolf Unit, and so we didn't take as many soldiers as would have been preferred. I've sustained injuries to my thigh, arms, and I'm bleeding in my mouth from a heavy punch to the face—I have to spit out blood periodically to keep it from choking me. However, the battle seems to finally be turning in our favor when something unexpected happens: the women join the fight. Instead of joining the fray, they begin to throw things out of the windows, hitting my soldiers—potted plants, chairs, books, even a bomb or two, to my surprise. My soldiers cry out, and some of them are mortally wounded by these projectiles.

I have to take them out. I grab three soldiers and direct one to follow me, telling the second to find some others and storm the second building. "Hustle," I command him. He nods and runs off to the spire. I turn to the third soldier. "Set it all on fire. Burn everything to the ground." He looks at me with wide eyes, but snaps off a quick, "Yes, Commander," and rushes to find a flamethrower. "Let's go," I tell the first soldier, and I immediately head for the first spire with the soldier in tow. "I'll clear the first room," I utter lowly, "You go directly to the second." He nods silently, and I start forward.

I see a man about to throw a small table out of the window, and I rush him, punching him hard in the gut and then bringing my heel down into his temple. A woman screams loudly right behind me; I whirl around and punch her out, too. The only one left in the room is an old woman breathing laboriously in the corner and perspiring heavily. Not a threat. I run to the next floor and find the soldier shooting a middle-aged woman in the heart. I smell smoke, and I know the third soldier has started the fire on the first floor. With the dry heat of Azha and the material of the building, I know the fire will spread quickly.

"Next floor," I direct. "We're short on time."

We rush up to the next floor, and find it full of children and an older woman standing in front of them, her arms outstretched as if protecting them all. "P-please," she gasps. "Please!" Her eyes roll back into her head in terror. The soldier points his gun at her.

"No," I say. I put my hand on the barrel of his gun and force it down. "Next floor." He nods and turns to leave with me, but suddenly gasps as blood squirts in one huge gush out of his chest. I see a man, hidden behind crates shoving a lacerated dagger into my soldier's chest. He collapses, and I know he's dead before he hits the ground.

I grit my teeth in anger and kick the villager's head so hard that shards of his skull and bits of brain matter splatter on the dirty floor. I spit a bloody mouthful of saliva on the corpse.

The children and woman scream behind me, but I've already moved to the next floor.

This floor has many people, and initially, I'm overwhelmed. But I sink into battle instinct, and I'm suddenly a whirl of motion, killing and killing and killing. My hands turn slippery with blood and my limbs shake with exhaustion, but adrenaline pumps hard through my veins. I'm unstoppable. I can't even hear their screams.

Finally, it's down to two people, a man and a woman who had been hanging back. I catch her by surprise by throwing a small bomb at a bookshelf that she's standing next to. It topples onto her, and I hear something crack. Without even a groan, she is instantly dead.

The man screams out, anguished, "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" He grabs a butcher knife and runs at me blindly, but he's no match for me. I reach out with my claws and swipe his jugular. He falls to the ground bonelessly.

"Why… are you… doing this?" he gurgles, blood seeping out of the corner of his mouth. "Wh—" he chokes on his blood and gags. Something crystallizes inside of me and sits heavily in my gut. He twitches spasmodically, like a dying animal, weak and bleeding like a stuck pig. This is disgusting. I can't even look him in the face as he dies.

A wave of revulsion begins to rise within me, and it's all I can do to keep my balance. It's not them, I think—it's me. I'm disgusting.

I hear hard footsteps behind me and out of pure instinct, I turn and punch my attacker. Something cracks under my fist; I see a small body flying across the room.

It's a child.

It's a child.

_It's a child._

There was a child in this room.

No…

I drop my fists and back away. No… no… This is a nightmare… I would never kill a child. My back hits a wall hard, and it knocks the breath out of me, forcing me to my knees. I drop hard on my knees, and all I see is red, red, red. The fire, red, burning the blacked pile of bodies in the corner of the room, where I threw them in my blind battle rage. The blood, so red, staining nearly every inch of them room, coloring my battle claws. Handprints, so very red, on the walls, from where people tried to get away from me. The dead child, drowning in the puddle of red blood.

This isn't a mission. This is a massacre.

I'm not a soldier. I'm a _serial killer._

I don't know how long I kneel there. I stare at the child, stare and stare, and I become so physically sick that I throw up until my vomit turns red with my own blood, bile burning the wound in my mouth. The fire comes closer and closer to where I remain motionless, but I can't do a thing to make myself move. For the first time in my life, I couldn't care less whether I live or die.

The next thing I feel is a hand on my arm and a voice shouting something at me that I can't even begin to understand. The world has become soundless. All I hear are the screams of the dead.

Azdar pulls me through the floors at a break-neck speed and finally out of the burning building, hauling me by the elbow. As soon as we're a safe distance from the fires, he drops my arm and instead shakes my shoulders. "What the fuck, Savyna?! What the hell were you doing, just sitting there while a fire was burning all around you? Where's your goddamn sense of preservation?!" His face is ugly with anger, spittle flying at my face, but I can't process any of it.

"Didn't you see…?" I whisper.

"What?" he snaps.

"The… the child…"

He gives me a look that clearly states that he thinks this is the most insipid question he's ever heard. "What the fuck does that have to do with anything?"

Suddenly, the world fast-forwards and everything goes red; too bright, too loud. The analytical soldier inside of me knows that I've gone hysterical, and that I need to go see a medic before I do something that I will regret. But for once, that part has become overpowered; dominated by the disgust, the horror, the sheer magnitude of the monstrosities I have committed today.

My claws rake across his face—he jerks back, cupping his bleeding cheek and looking at me in shock.

"Don't you dare!" I scream into his face. "Don't you dare minimize the things I've just done! I just killed a kid—that kid didn't do one goddamn thing to me! Not a goddamn thing! I just punched her in her fucking face and she went down! What the fuck is wrong with me?!"

By now, Azdar realizes that something has gone wrong with me. He switches tactics from angry to placating. "Woah, woah. Calm down, Savyna."

But I can't be ameliorated. My mind has gone cyclical; the punch I launched that killed the child, the burning bodies, the eyes of the man who asked me why. All I see is red.

"What the fuck am I?" I scream at Azdar. "Am I even human?" I struggle against his hold, trying to punch, rip, tear, kill—anything to take this away, this gaping emptiness, these memories of screams, the taste of another's blood in my mouth.

Because I know now, I know for sure. There is nothing inside of me that's worth anything at all.

Azdar holds strong on me even as I kick his shins and knees. I struggle for a long time, hissing like a rabid animal and spitting on his face. But eventually my exhaustion gets the better of me and I stand limply in his arms, panting and sweating heavily.

And then I begin to cry.

Ironically, it is when I feel the most like a monster that I show the most humanity I ever have.

"A child," I babble wetly, "a fucking child."

"Savyna," he breathes. But he must know that there's nothing to say. He wraps his arms around my body and lets me cry.

We stand, voiceless and beaten, as the broken village burns.

* * *

Later, I kneel in front of Emperor Geldoblame. My wounds are treated and bandaged, but they're far from healed.

Maybe they'll never be.

"Reporting, Emperor," I intone.

"Continue."

"The threat has been… neutralized."

He chuckles lowly. "Well done, Savyna. I heard from an unofficial report that you took out nearly 60 villagers by yourself. It seems fitting that the soldiers call you 'Lady Death' now."

I flinch at the moniker. I had heard it several times on the trip home, always with a smile and said with admiration. But it was only a filthy reminder of the tragedy I had led. Nevertheless, I force myself to remain monotone when I answer, "Yes, Highness."

"Rise," he commands.

As I stand, I look him directly in the eye for the first time in my life. I freeze. They're black, the coldest black I have ever seen.

"You have done a great service to your country. I name Operation Sweep a success and will accordingly increase your pay. I knew that you would be the perfect leader for the Mad Wolf Unit."

I can't bring myself to say anything, the cold of his eyes freezes me. There is no pride in what I have done.

"You've earned five days leave. Dismissed."

I sit there, staring at his eyes, barely registering that he's speaking. After a moment when he sees that his orders are not being obeyed, he frowns and snaps, "_Dismissed."_

I flinch at his tone and I exit. Azdar is waiting for me outside.

I look away from him; another source of shame. I'll never forget how I felt as he held me in Azha, how I felt as I cried like a helpless child.

"Savyna," he says. But I still can't look at him. He sighs and reaches up, cupping my cheek. "Look at me, please."

I hesitate, but I do look up.

He breaks into a wan smile. "Finally." For a few moments we stand there and he seems content to just stand there, holding my cheek and looking at my face, but I become increasingly uncomfortable by the expression in his eyes. It couldn't possibly mean…? No. We're soldiers. We both know not to step over the boundary we've set for ourselves. Sex is one thing. Friendship is another. Emotions are something entirely different. He knows this.

I remove his hand. "What is it, Azdar?"

He frowns briefly, but the look is quickly erased. "I have something for you." He reaches into his thigh pouch and rummages around in it for a second, before pulling something out.

It's a feather.

I take it from his outstretched palm and look up at him questioningly.

"That," he nods at it, "was from the child. You know the one."

My heart skips a beat. I look at the feather in new interest.

I shouldn't do this to myself, I know I shouldn't. I _should _give it back to Azdar and wipe this memory from my mind. I can never allow myself to feel that way again while I serve the Empire, I _know _I can't. Alfard deserves better than a soldier that's been crippled by emotions. But…

The child's face flashes in my mind.

I can't just throw this away. Someone should remember that child—that someone should be me. I took her life, after all.

This will be a memento. I will never lose control the way I did on that mission. I will never take another innocent life.

I look up into Azdar's eyes. "Thank you," I murmur.

He leans down. "Do we need to talk about the mission?"

I shake my head. "No. This has done all the talking already."

He smiles and seals his lips over mine.

And for one brief moment, I feel more warmth for him than I will ever admit to out loud.

* * *

I continue to carry out missions as before, but to my growing horror, something has shifted in my staunch resolve. I cringe at death. Sometimes, I lay awake at night, questioning the necessity of these actions.

Immediately afterwards, I'm gripped by the guilt for having doubted. But the doubt always returns. I promised to spare the innocent—at the time, I figured that Alfard would only ever order me to take the lives of those who had deserved it for treason against the empire. But now, with every life I'm ordered to end, I wonder, _"What has this one done?"_

This is the first time I have ever felt it… without my faith in the empire, I am nothing. Even through the jeers of my coworkers when I was young, even when I seduced the many faceless men for information, even as I took lives upon live during Operation Sweep, I have always been loyal to the Empire.

Just as farming is in Suudal, as knighthood is in Diadem, as the Tree is in Anuenue, as the unreality is in Mira, the military of Alfard has become the religion of my people. Without my faith in it, I am incomplete, a wasted life.

I have never blamed the Empire, the Emperor, for anything.

But there is something growing inside me, and I can't stop it. It keeps me up at night with the nightmares of the faces I have slaughtered.

Things will change for me now, I know this. I can't stop myself from dreaming of the bloodied faces of the men, women, and children I have killed in cold blood, but I have to believe that I'm doing some good for the empire—for the world—through the Mad Wolf Unit.

It suddenly strikes me how young I am. Too young, I think, to be leading our glorious Empire to prosperity, too young to be making all the right decisions.

When, I wonder, will I be old enough to stop making all the wrong ones?

Missions and months and people pass. I continue on, crippled.

The world I see now never appears to be made of the same stuff it did when I was a child. Back then, I was devoted to a simple image, one with absolutely no rough edges. Very easy to summarize, and it began and ended with the Emperor.

But I'm made of more fragile things than I ever thought I would be capable of harboring. Those edges are there, they were just hidden. Those edges are starting to cut through the armor of my soldier.

And today, I'm to be given a new assignment.

* * *

_Part 2. Review, please!_


	3. Chapter 3

Balancoir is quiet when we're beamed down from the Goldoba. The city lives up to its reputation as the misty city, and that alone makes it undeniably beautiful. But there's something more about it; it has a peaceful serenity that's so rare in the continents. There's no trouble in this corner of Mira. In a way, it reminds me of the soft beauty of the Nekkar Quietlands.

I remember now—I remember a quiet, soft memory of waterfalls and ancient stones. A place of peace. A place that no longer exists.

Everything is ruin and fire in the wrath of the Empire.

_And everything is red red red red red red red._

I shake my head and turn to Giacomo. "Are the preparations ready?"

"Almost. Ayme had to place the igniters around the house, and then we'll finally be ready."

"What?" I snap in harsh surprise. "I thought we were only taking down the Child?"

Folon snickers in the background and I level him with a slicing glare before turning back to Giacomo. He smirks then, so disturbingly eager that I almost step away from him. "Plans change. Georg is a traitor to the empire, and must be eliminated."

I look down, lapsing into silence. It's not my place to question my commanding officer—no matter how wrong this feels.

I see a flash of color from the corner of my eye—Ayme, signaling that her task is complete. Giacomo nods and advances on the small house, every step more eager than the last, until finally we are standing at the door like a band of common criminals.

"I've waited sixteen years for this," Giacomo hisses with building mania. "I get my revenge today."

Ayme cackles. "Well, this oughta be fun."

"Careful of Georg," Giacomo warns. "He may be prepared for this."

Folon snorts. "You worry too much, Boss." He chambers a kick.

A splitting crack and the door is down.

We storm the house with our weapons drawn, and a sharp shriek draws my immediate attention. And there—there is the Child. In my mind, I'd always pictured him to be a grown man, dark and terrible with a profanity about him that was the makeup of nightmares. But I was completely wrong. The Child is really nothing more than that; he couldn't be more than twelve years old. And he's beautiful—god, the most beautiful, pure thing I've ever seen, curled up on his bed beside another boy, eyes wide in terror, like a miniature angel out of the fables. Fuck.

How could I ever kill someone like this?

How could _anyone _kill a child like this?

I see Giacomo advance on the bed with the children, like a red-cloaked nightmare, and the children let out such a high-pitch shriek of pure terror—my blood freezes. Immediately everything inside me revolts at the _wrongness _of this mission. I know that I can't be here anymore—I'm not strong enough to stand idle as a pair of children get slain in their bed.

God, I can't just watch them die.

I back out of the room with my stomach turning against itself, quietly shutting the door behind me.

I get out just in time to see the house ignite, and I hear terrified shouts from adolescent voices from within. A small, high pitched voice cries out, "Brother!"

My breath is ragged as I turn away from the scene.

How could this be right?

How could any of this be the right path of the empire—to murder old men and to slaughter young children? To pillage poor villages and to burn their houses into cinders? How can it be right to extort peaceful neighbors and to enslave the country's own people? To brainwash nations into a cult of murderers and warp children into weapons?

How could Alfard come to this?

_How _could we have let Geldoblame become Emperor?

Two shots ring out, clear as a bell. Moments later, the blue haired boy and the Divine Child limp out, bleeding heavily.

"They won't survive with those wounds," I murmur, closing my eyes against the red, red, red of the flames. My heart skips a beat as I watch the blue-haired kid drag his lame, half-dead brother from the city.

Fuck this. Fuck all of this.

I'm just as guilty as I've always been—those children are as dead as if I had shot them myself.

That little angel dies tonight.

* * *

I stand in the throne room for the thousandth time, black guilt and nausea clawing at me.

Geldoblame sits on his throne, and before my very eyes he's fallen from his golden throne and become obscene. Fat and wrinkled, makeup caked on his jowls, eyes black as an abyss—a demon disguised as a man.

How could I have ever loved him?

I drop to my knee. "Reporting, Emperor." My voice cracks on the last syllable.

"Good, Savyna. I take it that the mission was a success? You eradicated that little pest and that treasonous wretch?"

I flinch. "Yes." I pause and gather my courage, blurting out, "May I ask a question, Emperor?"

He hums. "Speak."

"Why?"

I look up just in time to catch frown lines deepening around his lips. "Why, what?"

"Why did we kill that child?"

His frown turns suddenly dark, and he rumbles, "It is not your place to question me."

"But, Highness, _please_," I beg, "Why that child? He was no threat to our empire—to you! He didn't—"

"SILENCE!" Geldoblame thunders. "Who are you to question me?" He pounds his great staff onto the marble floor, and the sound causes me to jump so much that I end up sprawling on my back on the floor. Wide eyed, I gaze into the soulless, cold eyes of a man possessed.

"I will kill as many children as necessary, as long as I can reign as supreme emperor of the most powerful empire in the world! And you simpletons will follow without complaint. I _own _you, soldier. Next time if I ask you to kill the children of traitors, you will ask me 'how many?' and the streets will run with their blood. They're barely above beasts, those worthless, mindless peasants!" He lets out a deep laugh. "And I will slaughter them as I see fit!" he hisses triumphantly.

And I am rising, barely cognizant, wordless fury roiling inside me.

Geldoblame sees this and laughs, the twisted mockery of a man he has become. "What is this, defiance? That made you angry? Who do you think you are? You think you can have a single thought in your head that has any meaning at all? You must be joking!" He laughs again, even more mockingly than before.

It's like Hell itself has given me .The fury pulses through me, formless and useless, but it has direction.

And for the first time in weeks, months, years,I feel something again. Finally. I know what to do. For the first time in my life, I know what to _do._

"I was never good at playing games," I hiss, pulling out my imperial pins and throwing them to the floor at his feet. "All my life, I've played yours." Without meaning to, I begin to approach his throne, battle claws out, teeth bared. I lean down into his horrible, ugly face, and hiss, "But now I'll make you play mine. You will pay blood for blood for the children of Azha. Fear for your life, you pathetic bastard; you made me a murderer, and I'll make good on that." I breathe heavily, gritting my teeth and clenching my fists. I stare into his terrified, empty eyes, and impossibly my hatred grows stronger. "Today is not the day I will kill you. But soon. Someday soon." I step back, barely restraining the overwhelming urge to make him bleed, and watch him tremble—the pathetic rat. I hiss one last message, "It will be my pleasure to gut you like a stuck pig."

I spit onto the pins and walk calmly from his room, for once in my life, in control of my destiny.

* * *

Anger still roils strongly within me as I walk quickly from the center of the Imperial Fortress, knowing that if Geldoblame sounds the alarm fast enough, I'll be in serious shit. I don't make any stops. There's no point going back to the barracks—everything I've ever owned in life is on me right now.

"Savyna!" a voice calls from behind me, and my blood immediately freezes, icing over my rage.

"Azdar," I whisper. I turn and face him, barely breathing. What am I going to do about Azdar?

He jogs up to me with a grin on his face. "Hey," he greets, putting a hand on my waist familiarly. "How was the mission?"

I stare at him wordlessly, not knowing what to say. The smile slowly slips off of his face and his eyes flicker across my face. "What's wrong, Savyna?"

"I—" my voice breaks off.

It hits me, sudden and sharp, leaving a dark sinking feeling in my gut. If I have to leave the Imperial Forces… I can't be with him anymore.

I made a death threat to the most powerful man in the sky. I'll be on the run for the rest of my life.

Panic rises in me and I vaguely hear Azdar speaking sharply to me, but I suddenly realize that I'm going to be alone from here on—the most alone I've ever been, without cause or purpose, besides a rather unreachable goal of killing the Emperor.

How the hell am I going to be able to kill him? How could I be stupid enough to think that I'd even be able to try? Thank God I had enough sense to not kill the man there, or everyone I knew and cared for would be assuredly dead—as short a list as that may be.

As I berate myself for the impetuousness of my actions, a memory cuts through my mind like a gunshot. A series of faces appear as ghosts—every person I can remember killing, from as far back as I started killing them. The girl's face is especially prominent, reoccurring several times, bloodied and disfigured—my most powerful memory, the one that keeps me awake on the darkest nights. But the last face, the most lingering face, is that of the angel's, sleeping softly on his bed, untouched by pain and anger and violence.

And we burned him.

I take a fortifying breath, forgetting my regret.

For him. I'm doing this—for once in my goddamn _life_—for those that should be protected.

That _I _should have protected.

"Savyna," I hear Azdar hiss, "Savyna, you're scaring me."

I blink, refocusing. "Azdar," I breathe.

His face crumples with relief. "Dear lord, Savyna. You need to stop doing that! It scares the living hell out of me."

I close my eyes and breathe him in for a single moment, then summon up all my willpower and step out of his grasp.

"What…?" His eyes are wide and confused.

"I'm leaving," I state lowly.

"What?!"

"Keep it down," I hiss. But his expression doesn't change at all.

"Why are you leaving? Where are you going?" he demands.

I shake my head. "I don't know. But I can't… I can't live like this anymore. All the people we've killed—do we even know why we've killed them?"

"They were threats to the Empire," Azdar immediately recites.

"But why? That's what Geldoblame told us, but I've never once understood why they were threats in the first place!"

Azdar struggles with himself for a moment. "But you can't leave!" he blurts. "If you leave, you'll be labeled as a deserter! You'll be put on the military's watch list!"

"I'm already there. I've already threatened Geldoblame."

"What?!" he demands. "What the hell did you do, Savyna!"

I glare at him and warn him again, "Lower your voice. Someone's going to hear!"

"Well, what the FUCK are you planning to do? Run around? Hide? Die?" his voice cracks on the last question.

"I'll figure that out soon. For now, I'm moving toward the Azhan Desert. I know I can survive there, at least for awhile—nomadic tribes subsist on the oasis', right?"

"No!" Azdar protests.

"Azdar, I _have_ to go. I've already committed treason—I challenged the Emperor and threatened him with his life. I'll be executed."

He gapes at me. "What? You… threatened to murder him?" He physically struggles with his horror for a few seconds before shaking his head. "Never mind. Fine, I can see that there's nothing else you can do." He clenches his fists for a few minutes indecisively, and then bites out, "Wait a few minutes—I've got to grab some things."

"Excuse me?"

He levels me with a serious gaze. "I'm coming with you. There's no way I'm going to let you run from the Empire alone."

Immediately, I'm shocked by his loyalty to me and for a moment, I'm very tempted, and the selfish part of my mind says, 'Yes, yes, yes. I want to stay with you.' But it's quickly turned aside. I can't condemn Azdar to this—he would regret it and be unhappy on the run. He still loves the Empire, I could see it in the expression on his face when I told him that I would kill Geldoblame.

I shake my head. "No."

He glares venomously, his very being defiant. "Yes! Whether you like it or not, where you go, I go!"

"You can't come with me, Azdar. You still have a purpose here; I can't take that away from you."

"But don't you understand?" He bridges the distance again, placing a hand on my back and another cupping my cheek. "I can't be here without you! _You're _my purpose." He lowers his forehead to mine and breathes, "Savyna, I lo—"

"No," I interrupt sharply, trying to pull away from him. This is hard enough without his confession.

"Let me finish, Savyna! If you're trying to leave me, I at least deserve that much." He swallows heavily as I lapse into silence. "I love you, Savyna. I've loved you for a very long time. Please," his voice breaks, "please don't leave me."

"Azdar…"

"Yes, Savyna. Let me stay with you. Please. Let me love you."

"I can't," I whisper back. "You'll hate me."

"I could never—"

"Yes," I interrupt. "Maybe not today or tomorrow, but someday, you'll hate me. I can't do it. I've already lost my home, my purpose, my soul. I can't lose the only bright thing I've ever had." I swallow. "Please, you have to let me go."

Azdar breathes heavily for a few moments. "But…"

"No." I pull back, checking around to see if there are any soldiers. I've wasted too much time already, the alarm could sound any minute. "Azdar, I have to leave."

"Right now?" He sounds alarmed. "No! Stay with me tonight—please! I won't try to stop you, but I don't want you to leave without—without—"

I place a finger over his lips. "If I stay any longer, I will be caught. I need to leave right now."

He stands silently again, staring at me with the eyes of a torn man, mouth working indecisively. "You're right," he responds finally, obviously defeated. "Can I at least kiss you goodbye?" he begs.

In response, I lean forward and press my lips to his. The kiss is bitter and loving—because I know, I really do. I love this man. Losing him is going to hurt almost more than I can bear.

But I've made my choice. There are some things that hurt far worse, some of them I'm at fault for—I'll live through this, I'm sure. But if I stay here, without a doubt, I will die. And I will die without setting the world right—I will die without paying for my crimes.

I break the kiss and take a moment more to savor his arms around me. "For whatever it's worth, Azdar… I love you. I think I'll always love you," I whisper. It takes so much effort to say it to him. It will take so much to walk away.

He shudders and swallows. "I know."

I push away from him. "Goodbye, Azdar." I walk quickly away from him without looking back. I want to be with him. I can never be with him again.

This is the last time we will ever meet as lovers, and he knows that too. If we ever meet again… we will be forced to kill.

I run from the fortress, passing few soldiers. Some of them shout out greetings to me as I pass, but I know within a few minutes, Geldoblame will call an all-out pursuit of me, and everything will go to hell. I need to find cover, and I need to find it fast.

The desert is at a day away by road at a steady walking pace, two if I take the forested route, which would provide the most cover—but I'll be sprinting as fast as I can the entire distance. It should cut my time significantly. I can probably get there by morning, even taking the long route.

Once I hit the desert, I'll be safe. No one has ever sent a significant force into that wasteland; it's practically signing a death warrant.

I can do it.

* * *

"Shit!" I cuss. I scramble over a boulder and slide into cover just as a dozen shots echo behind me.

"Come out, Lady Death!" calls a soldier. The others repeat this message like many brainless birds, drawing steadily closer.

In retrospect, I should have known that Geldoblame would have sounded the alarm outside of the fortress first, to catch me in an escape attempt. At least they hadn't fired up the Iron Beetles by the time I had entered the grounds proper; I could whittle away at infantry without sustaining more than superficial injuries, but an Iron Beetle has a destructive force that would be hard to combat one on one.

The sounds of clanking footsteps come closer. I pull out a bomb, hoping to scatter the troops so I'm protected when I run from cover. If I can reduce the platoon to about three or four soldiers, then I should be able to make a stand. I glance at the force over the top of my cover.

There are ten troops.

… At least this isn't the most hopeless situation I've ever been in.

I throw the bomb. As they scream and disperse, I vault from cover, sprinting as far down the plateau as possible. There's no way I can lose them in an environment this sparse, but maybe I can outrun—

_Thunk!_

An explosion of pain nearly blinds me and I stumble wildly from the force of the impact. I lose my sense for a moment; instinctively raising my palm to my shoulder, as if to hold it together. When I look at my hand, it comes away red.

Mother _fucker._

I whirl around and see two soldiers advancing on me, lining up their scopes to shoot me again.

'They're only dangerous long range,' I think half-deliriously, shoulder throbbing in unbelievable pain.

With a battle cry, I rush my enemies, forcing them to stumble back. One of them attempts to unsheathe a cruelly-edged dagger, but with a sharp elbow to the face, he drops it.

He grunts and claps his hand over his eye, but quickly recovers, lashing out a kick towards my midriff. I catch his leg and slam his knee into a hyperextension with my forearm, forcefully pushing him to the ground with an audible crack of bone as he howls in pain. Broken kneecap for sure, therefore incapaci—

I hear the other soldier move behind me, and without thinking I throw up an arm in a defensive block, but my injury causes my arm to buckle weakly and I can only just manage to ward off the blow to my skull. Before he can take advantage of my weakness, I pivot on a heel, smashing my other elbow back into my attacker's solar plexus—his armor likely blocks most of the pain of the impact, but the force of the blow is enough to create some distance between us.

Without glancing at the downed soldier behind me, I stomp loudly on the ground to catch him in a distraction. He looks down reflexively and before he realizes it, I've executed a cartwheel, slamming into his torso with my back. We land on the ground with him struggling to catch his breath.

Before he can start to retaliate, I catch his neck in a chokehold with my thighs, squeezing against the muscles and arteries that will cut off his airflow.

He gasps brokenly, weakly trying to throw me off, but I hold strong. In a minute, he stops moving completely, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, body sagging lifelessly.

His dead eyes stare into mine, accusing and terrified.

I quickly block out my feelings about the magnitude of the treason I've just committed. In the midst of battle, I'm running high on adrenaline.

I survey my surroundings quickly, and about twenty feet away I see the other soldier I thought I had incapacitated trying to crawl away, dragging his useless leg behind him. I close the distance between us, and with a shove of my foot, I've rolled him to his side.

His eyes are streaming with tears, snot smeared on his upper lip; an utterly pathetic sight. "Please!" he pleads to me. "Don't kill m—"

Without hesitating, I cut him off with a sharp heel through the throat. He gurgles under the fountain of blood for a few moments, looking at me with round, terrified eyes, and then he too falls silent.

I remove my foot from his neck and wipe the blood coating my heel on his Imperial clothing.

I stare at the steadily widening pool of blood forming underneath his corpse, and remind myself that there is no place for mercy in a fugitive.

"Shit," I mutter one more time, wiping grit off my face absently. I turn and survey my surroundings for other soldiers, letting my adrenaline leak out of me.

A sharp burst of agony runs down my right arm, and with a grunt of surprise, I remember my injured shoulder.

Damn. As dangerous as it is to stay in one place for long, I need to tend to this, or I'll be absolutely useless in the fights that are certain to come up.

I consider my options. I have no idea how deep the wound is, or if the bullet is still lodged in my shoulder. I also have absolutely no first aid materials on me—but, I realize suddenly, maybe the soldiers do. I didn't see them use them before while in battle.

Bending down, I root around in the pockets of the body below me and find a military-grade healing salve in a pocket, and upon looting the second corpse, I find another healing salve, a small roll of medical adhesives, and a small coin purse.

I tuck the money away for later emergencies and settle behind the boulder a few yards away, providing cover for myself. Blood sluggishly flows from the opening in my shoulder. 'God,' I think as I unravel the medical adhesive, 'I hate bullet wounds.'

Reaching around with my other uninjured arm, I touch my opposite scapula. There is an openly bleeding wound, which means the bullet ran through my body, thankfully at a nonlethal juncture. Cautiously, I poke two fingers in the front of the hole and probe for bullet shrapnel.

"Damn, damn, _damn_," I growl. I throw my head back against the rock behind me, arching my body involuntarily as the pain becomes incredible. "Why bullets? Why always bullets?" I grit my teeth and continue to dig around gently, but thankfully find nothing—it must have run through my shoulder intact. From there, I set to the awkward work of rubbing the numbing salve into the abrasion, then wrapping my entire shoulder one handedly. I'm no stranger to pain, but my relief is immense when the whole messy business is over with.

I flex my shoulder and raise my arm, and, disregarding the slightly dulled pain from the salve, my arm is still functional. Although I won't want to get in any arm wrestling matches soon.

I sigh and, pushing away from the boulder, I begin to move onwards, studiously ignoring the bodies behind me.

'If I'm going to move on to the desert,' I think, 'I'm going to need to find a place to stock up on water.' There's no guarantee that I'll be able to find an oasis within three days of getting there. So—where? Azha is out; supposing that I could even go in that village without retching, the villagers are certain to recognize me, and they may even have soldiers posted there by the time I arrive since I can't take the straightforward route to the village via the road. So, natural source it is. I won't enter the desert until I find it. Food would be convenient, too, but I'll dehydrate much more quickly than I'll starve out in the blistering heat of the desert—and I've been told that there is a surprising amount of wildlife that can be hunted at night.

"Mm," I mutter out loud, thinking. "Where—"

_BOOM._

The ground shakes violently and instantly I drop down into a defensive stance, scanning the area.

An aircraft passes overhead from behind me, and I whirl around—there, about twenty yards away, it has delivered an Iron Beetle.

I snarl in frustration. "Can't I catch a break!"

From behind the machina, two soldiers scurry out.

"Fuck."

The Beetle charges its armaments, and before I can properly dodge, it fires at me. With the smell of singed hair, I dive to the side, fall into a combat roll, and set off at a dead sprint towards the soldier on the left before it can charge up again and fry me.

My target fumbles with his gun in surprise, managing to fire two shots wildly—but before he can get a sure grip, I launch myself into the air, slamming into his chest feet-first. We fly through the air for a few feet, and with a sickening crunch, I end up with my knees crushing the bones of his chest concave.

He lets out an inhuman screech, and before the other soldier can come to his aid, I jab the palm of my hand into his nose. He's dead instantaneously.

His comrade screams at me as he runs around the Beetle, but I slide myself underneath it and shimmy to the other side to buy myself recovery time, knees throbbing slightly from the impact. At this range, the Beetle is practically useless—there are no weapons on the lateral or ventral sides. I can essentially use it as the world's largest shield and the operator won't be able to do so much as tickle my toes, as long as I don't step in front of the cannon.

The soldier vaults over the Beetle to my side, and as he leaps through the air, I grab his ankle with both arms, using his momentum to awkwardly slam him into the ground, stumbling a bit as I let go.

Although he groans and is dazed for a second, he quickly recovers, sweeping me behind a knee before I regain my balance. I fall to the ground beside him.

He takes advantage of this, and with a flash, he's embedded a small hunting knife into my calf. I scream, but he's already rolling over and trapping my arms under his while simultaneously locking my thighs with his calves. Worse, I can feel the Iron Beetle backing away to get into a better position to use its cannons—I need to move quickly.

I force myself to ignore the pain in my calf and shoulder, hissing in his face as I thrust my pelvis into his. He hasn't been in the hold long enough to steady it, so his balance is immediately thrown, jerking out one arm to right himself. One arm is all I need to uppercut his face with an elbow, rolling away quickly as he cries out, clutching it tightly with his hands. At that exact moment, the unmistakable sound of the cannon firing fills the air, and the soldier is ripped through the middle with a gaping, sizzling hole.

I grimace in momentary pain as I rise to my feet, my calf barely holding my weight, before launching myself at the Beetle, wedging between the two cannons just as it fires again.

The operator, seeing that I'm too close to be injured by the Beetle, pulls a short-range shotgun from the harness on his back.

Oh, shit.

I slide back under the Beetle to regroup. The only way I can get to him is through surprise; if he sees me, I'll be shot again.

God _damn _it, my wounds are _painful_!

I take a few deep breaths before I launch out from underneath the left side of the huge machine. I grip the edge of the machina as I move and, using the momentum of my body, I execute a tight flip that lands me behind the operator in a crouch.

"What the—!"

I silence him with a broken neck.

Then all is quiet.

I climb out of the Beetle slowly, mindful of my injuries, and drop to the ground. Eveything is throbbing.

To my surprise, I find the knife still stuck in the muscle of my calf and I yank it out with a suppressed shriek. Damn it. That's going to be extremely week for at least a week—and if there's one thing I don't want injured right now, it's my leg.

Knowing that there's nothing I can do about it at the moment, I plaster the numbing salve all over the wound, and wrap it tightly. I touch my wrapped shoulder, and feel only a little wetness. For now, my major wounds are healed.

I do a quick survey of the other damages. A few cuts, some burned hair, a road rash from sliding on the gritty ground underneath the Beetle, but nothing else too debilitating.

I sigh, exhausted, and hope that this will be the last fight I have today.

I tend to my weakly bleeding cuts, loot the bodies of the dead soldiers, and stand up to survey the Beetle. Leaving it where any soldier could come and use it would be idiotic—I don't think I could survive another fight with one anytime soon.

I activate my Tekken and punch through the control panel. There.

With a quick glance around, I set off briskly away from the scene. I suppose I've actually been rather lucky so far in that I haven't had an entire platoon come after me, but if I have another fight like that, I'm going to be in serious trouble.

I sigh tiredly as I consider the probability of running into more soldiers.

For now, the plan is to find water.

And then—the desert.

* * *

_A/N: I'm freaking slow at updating, even when I already have everything written. Sigh._


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